


Valenki

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim disciplines his little stallion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valenki

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Because trekbedtimestories doesn’t have enough TOS Kirk/Chekov. ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He feels better for the drink, though he had less than Bones—he doesn’t care for their formal uniforms any more than any of his crew, but Bones is always the most off put by them. A drink after an ambassador’s dinner has become commonplace, even when Jim has... _other_... predilections to indulge.

The wait served well, anyway. Delays are their own form of punishment. Especially to young, impatient officers. When a flick of his hand sends his closet door sliding open, there’s an immediate rustling amidst his clothes. 

Right where Jim left him, Pavel remains on the floor, knelt with his arms behind his back, his wrists bound to his ankles with the old-fashioned, thick rope that Jim grew up with. It looks better on Pavel than it ever did on any horse, wrapped tight around his creamy skin, the golden sleeves of his uniform pushed out of the way. His feet are bare, but his pants are still on—he could leap for duty if a red alert sounded, with perhaps a few minutes to struggle out of his bonds. For now, he makes no move to escape. His legs are already open, but his thighs seem to spread wider on sight of his captain, his back arching and posture straightening, head tilting up. He breathes a quiet, “Keptin,” with pride in his voice, as though he’s saluting Jim on the bridge instead of tossed aside in amongst Jim’s boots. 

Boots are what got him here in the first place. Trying to keep his grin down, Jim asks, “Did you think about what you did?” It’s an old form of chastisement, still an effective one, albeit more fun with a little light bondage involved. Pavel’s an energetic, exciting thing; he deserves a few extra frills to their games. Yet he wrinkles his nose childishly, almost pouting, as though this punishment is anything but fair. 

Still, he never openly defies his captain, and he promises, “I vill newer wear zhe wrong boots to a formal dinner again.” On anyone else, Jim probably wouldn’t have even noticed—they’re both generic, black, standard-issue sets. On Pavel Chekov, Jim will take any excuse. 

And he takes Pavel’s apology, reaching forward to thread his finger’s in Pavel’s thick brown hair. He pets Pavel like a cat or a dog, and Pavel instantly preens under it, always eager for attention. “You should be honoured to attend at all,” Jim can’t help but coo, scratching idly behind one of Pavel’s ears. “Ensigns aren’t often invited to these things.”

A shutter runs through Pavel’s body. He never tires of reminders that he’s _special_ , so young, so inexperienced, and yet he sits on Jim’s bridge and navigates them all, comes on away missions often and sometimes is allowed to attend Jim’s better parties. Few of Jim’s underlings can say the same. Pavel nods, eliciting a low, keening noise, and he nuzzles his check into Jim’s hand. His cheeks are already flushed. He’s so impulsive, so easily aroused, especially for _Jim_ , and Jim takes advantage of that, taking his favourite pet ever closer to the edge. 

But it’s still a reprimand, and soon enough, Jim pulls his hand away. Pavel frowns but doesn’t whine—not yet. Jim lifts one foot, having thought of a fitting punishment, and he holds his knee against Pavel’s forehead, ordering in the same tone he uses on duty, “Take them off, ensign.”

Pavel complies. He doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth, clenching his teeth around the laces, and he gives a tug to loose the bow. Jim holds his leg steady while Pavel deftly unties the boot, then runs his mouth down the length of it. At the tip, he spreads his lips around Jim’s toes, and he tries to pull it free. It takes a bit of squirming, but Pavel’s determined, and the boot slides off. Pavel lets it fall from his mouth, landing between his legs, and he tries to bend to reach the other, but his arms, pulled taut, hold him back. Jim lifts his second leg to help. Pavel removes the second boot quicker for the practice, but also a little less graceful, more harried, eager for _more_ —Jim can see that he thinks this a prelude. Stripping away uniforms usually is. Unfortunately, Jim has more plans tonight. 

Jim’s never been a cruel captain, however. Pavel’s bearing his punishment well, and for that, at least, he deserves a slight reprieve. Jim slips into a more comfortable pair of shoes, noting Pavel’s disappointment, but then he kneels down before his best navigator. He murmurs, “Good boy,” and slips his index finger under Pavel’s chin, tilting it up for a kiss. 

Pavel’s kiss is needy, greedy, trying to surge forward, but Jim is cruelly languid and pulls back to avoid Pavel’s tongue. He gives Pavel only a chaste, light brush of lips, and only pressed forward when Pavel petulantly settles, keeping his mouth obediently closed. Jim rewards him with a hand splayed over his chest, smoothing down his stomach, fingertips slipping beneath his waistband. Drinking Pavel’s sudden gasp, Jim wraps his hand around Pavel’s crotch, cups it and _squeezes_ , delighted to have no underwear in his way. Pavel’s cock excitedly fills to meet him, thick and throbbing but held cruelly down. Jim twists his fingers around it and gives it a hard pump, then another. He quickly falls into an even, fast rhythm, designed for one thing: milking his little Pavel out. Pavel makes a keening noises, presses his face into Jim’s shoulder, and lets himself be touched into oblivion.

For all his boldness and confidence, in Jim’s hands, Pavel becomes a different creature entirely. He becomes small, desperate, dependant and overwhelmed. Though Jim’s strokes are purely utilitarian, they seem to wrack Pavel’s whole body, wringing him with shivers of delight. Pavel trembles for him, hips frantically humping his hand, thrusting forward, Pavel’s breath coming hard. He pants steam against Jim’s neck and writhes weakly against his bonds, his legs trying to spread as wide as they can. He’s a beautiful thing. Jim spares his a few kisses on his cheeks, his temple, his nose, but mostly just pumps him, pets his hair and purrs, “ _Good boy._ ”

Pavel comes to this. He bursts in Jim’s fingers, crying out, maybe incoherent, maybe just garbled Russian too thick for the translators. He curls as tightly into Jim as the ropes allow, and then he opens his mouth against Jim’s shoulder, dampening the fabric and muffling his cries. Jim strokes him through it, immensely fond. 

When Pavel finishes, he’s a shivering wreck, whimpering and wilting. Jim slowly detangles from him, sets him down, and he slumps, only his tied arms keeping him upright. Jim lifts his hand to wipe off along Pavel’s face, covering his pretty skin in milky white, and Pavel dizzily allows it. His skin is hot to the touch. Kirk gives him a peck on the lips afterwards, promising, “I have a chess match with Spock. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Pavel whines horribly, then swears in Russian, but finally just shakes his head and bitterly promises, “I vill behawe better next time.”

Jim chuckles, “Then there’ll be a next time.” And he kisses Pavel’s forehead.

He rises to his feet and doesn’t bid the closet to close. It’s difficult not to look over his shoulder as he heads for the washroom, needing to wash himself off. 

He can only hope he’ll take Spock’s king quickly.


End file.
